


Natural Order

by orphan_account



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Accidental Team Gathering, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Armorer, Baby Yoda’s Cuteness Is The Strongest Force Of Them All, Bad Writing, Betrayal, Enemies to Friends, Friendship, Gen, Imperial Officers (Star Wars), Internal Conflict, M/M, Mandalorian Culture, Manipulation, Parent-Child Relationship, Possessive Behavior, Protective Mandalorian, Rare Pairings, Scheming, Slow Burn, Stealing Certain Events and People from Star Wars Legends, Timeline What Timeline, Typical Imperial Backstabbing, courting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22044418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: His belief was that everything had its natural place in life. The Mandalorians belonged with the Empire, that was the way of things. Numerous events had parted both sides from their paths, but the Imperial was confident that he could begin to restore them to their rightful places.
Relationships: The Client/The Mandalorian
Comments: 6
Kudos: 47





	1. Contact

He’d chosen to forgo his bodyguards for this trip, making the trek to the cantina alone. The others had disapproved of this, but he had persisted. The Great Purge had done... _significant..._ harm to the Empire’s standing with the Mandalorians, if he wanted to have any hope of finding the tribe on this planet, he couldn’t start with strength. A man with stormtroopers would be viewed as a threat, but a man on his own? Perhaps they would be willing to speak with a man.

He entered the cantina, ignoring the few glances he got as he walked past the bar. Making his was through the crowded room, he took his seat before Greef Karga. Clasping his hands in his lap, the man waited for the Guild Master to speak. The other man eyed him for a long moment, then sat forward.

“My boys say that you’ve been asking around about Mandalorians,” he began, “why?” He pointedly looked at the Imperial pin the man wore. “You gotta grudge? Looking to finish what the Great Purge started?”

“Nothing of the sort,” the Imperial replied, shaking his head.

“Then why’re you looking for them?” the Guild Master pressed.

“That is a discussion I will hold with the Mandalorians themselves, should I receive the chance,” he replied, and the other man huffed in mild annoyance.

“That’s really how you’re gonna play this?” he asked, and the Imperial gave a thin smile.

“It is.”

“Fine, then.” The Guild Master shifted in his seat, pointing past him to a secluded room off to the right. “It’s your head if he doesn’t like your answer.” The man stood, touching the bag on his belt to feel its weight as he started toward the small room. Filthy beings of all kind brushed against him as he walked, and the Imperial took a breath and slowly let it out. Reaching the room, he peered inside. There was a small two person table before him, and at the far end sat a Mandalorian.

“Sit.” The man ordered, and he did as told. The Mandalorian sat near completely still, the only movement he made the slight tilt of his dark Beskar helmet to watch the Imperial. “Explain yourself,” he said, “what do you want with us?”

“I wish to speak with your tribe-”

“No.” The Mandalorian said.

“What I have to say will be of great interest to them,” the Imperial assured him, but the bounty hunter appeared unmoved.

“No.”

“You don’t trust me,” he stated, and the shorter man gave a slight nod. “I’ve brought an offering. A sign of good will, if you would.” He sat back, slowly reaching down to unhook the pouch. He held it up to let the Mandalorian observe it, then held it out to him. When the armored man didn’t move, the Imperial leaned forward to set the bag on the table, then clasped his hands in his lap. After a moment of silence, the Mandalorian reached out and took it. His head cocked ever so slightly as he felt at what was inside, and the Imperial imagined him frowning behind his helmet. Thin fingers carefully tugged the bag open, and a new level of stillness fell upon them as he stared down at the ingot.

“Beskar?” The man asked, his voice quiet.

“It’s real,” the Imperial assured him, watching as the Mandalorian slowly ran his fingers over the smooth metal. He settled back, content to wait as the shorter man examined it. They sat in silence for another long moment, then the bounty hunter at last looked back up to him, moving as if to give the Beskar back. The Imperial held a hand up, shaking his head. “It is an offering,” he said, “keep it.” Tanned fingers curled around the ingot, and the Mandalorian returned it to its bag and set it on the table.

“What do you want with the tribe?” he asked again.

“I wish to speak with them,” the Imperial repeated, and this time the Mandalorian didn’t immediately turn him down. The helmet stared in his direction, then turned down toward the ingot. Again, silence.

“I can’t make that decision for them,” he finally said. “I’ll give them your offering and tell them what you want. You’ll accept whatever decision they make.” The Imperial smiled.

“Agreed,” the older man replied, watching as the Mandalorian stood and took the pouch.

“When they’ve decided, I’ll have the Guild Master inform you and we’ll meet here again.”

“I’ll wait for his word,” the Imperial said, and the shorter man turned, leaving the room without another word. His smile widened. He would wait with complete confidence- the tribe would agree to speak with him.


	2. Gift

The Mandalorian walked down the dark hallway, stepping aside as three foundlings ran past, the children giggling as they chased each other. He paused a moment to watch them, then continued onward. Reaching down, the man untied the pouch from his belt as he neared the Armorer’s chamber. Stepping inside, he leaned his weapons against the wall and moved towards the low table. He sat down before the forge, staying silent as the Armorer finished her work. She set her hammer and tongs aside, walking around the forge to sit at the other end of the table.

“Well?” she asked.

“He’s Imperial,” the man began. “He wants to talk to the Tribe, said that it ‘would be of great interest’ to us.”

“And?”

“He gave me this,” the Mandalorian said, placing his pouch on the table. He pulled the top open, reaching in to take the ingot out and set it before the Armorer. The woman reached for it, examining the metal as she turned it in her grasp.

“Beskar,” she said, and he nodded. “This was gathered in the Great Purge,” she continued, and his gaze dropped. “It is good that it is back with the Tribe.”

“Yes,” the Mandalorian quietly agreed.

“A pauldron would be in order,” the Armorer began, stopping when the Mandalorian slightly shook his head.

“It was unearned,” he said, “a gift from the Imperial.”

“It was a gift given to you,” the woman replied.

“For the Tribe,” he carefully insisted, and she stared at him for a long moment before finally nodding.

“Then it is a generous gift, one that will sponsor many foundlings.”

“That’s good,” the Mandalorian said, watching as she ran her gloved thumb over the symbol of the Empire. They sat in silence as she thought, the Mandalorian closing his eyes as he took a quiet breath and slowly let it out. It was always warm here. He breathed in the heat, thinking of the blue skies that had once been- The low rustle of armor and cloth made him open his eyes, and the man watched as the Armorer set the ingot on the table.

“I will speak with the Imperial,” she declared, and the Mandalorian’s eyes widened in surprise. She would? He hadn’t thought- “You will bring him here. I will ensure that his arrival and departure are untroubled.”

“Y-yes,” the Mandalorian hurriedly agreed, nodding. He stood from his seat as the woman took the Beskar. She got up from the table, turning back towards the forge as he hesitated. When she didn’t turn back, the Mandalorian moved to retrieve his weapons, glad for helmet as he stepped out into the main hallway. He was to bring an Imperial _here_ , to the Enclave. He swallowed, then pushed his uncertainties aside and set out.


	3. Call

The Imperial sat back, waiting for the Moff’s holo call to stabilize. The man’s tall form finally ceased to flicker, and the Moff looked around the room.

“You have established a base?” he asked, and the Imperial nodded.

“Yes, Moff Gideon.”

“And your Mandalorians?”

“I have established contact with one of them,” the older man said, “they’ll soon speak with me.”

“And if they refuse?” the Moff asked, and the Imperial shook his head.

“They won’t.”

“Always so certain,” Gideon said, turning to eye him, “see to it that your certainty produces results, or I will find other means to accomplish my goals.”

“Of course, Moff Gideon,” the Imperial replied with a tight smile. He sighed after his superior ended the call, shaking his head. So little faith in the way of things, the other man was blind to the cycle. A light knock came from the door to his left, and he turned in his seat to face it. “Come in,” he called out, watching as Dr. Pershing and the sergeant entered.

“We’re not interrupting, are we?” the doctor quietly asked, and the Imperial shook his head.

“Sir,” the sergeant stepped forward, “we’ve established a perimeter and have set up patrols.”

“Good,” the Imperial said. “There haven’t been any problems with the locals, have there?”

“Not yet,” she replied. “They’re uneasy, but no one’s been violent.”

“You will tell me if that changes,” he said, and she nodded.

“Of course, sir,” the sergeant assured him.

“You may go,” the Imperial told her, and the woman turned and made her way from the room. “Now, Doctor,” he sat forward as the other man swallowed. “How are your preparations going?”

“I’m almost done, sir,” Pershing replied, clasping his hands behind his back. “The machine should be operational by the end of the week.”

“You believe it will perform as expected when the Asset is delivered?” the Imperial asked, and the doctor hesitated.

“It.. it _should_ work, sir,” Pershing said. “I’ve had to modify the original design, but the changes shouldn’t effect it’s functionality.”

“Moff Gideon has invested a great deal of credits into this venture,” he reminded the man, who gave a small nod. “If you should encounter any troubles with the machine, you will tell me, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the doctor said, his gaze dropping. A light ringing tone came from the Imperial’s right, and he looked back at his desk. His holorecorder lit up, the device beeping to signal an incoming call.

“Thank you, Doctor. You are dismissed.” Pershing turned to hurry from the room as the Imperial faced his desk, reaching out to accept the call. The image of the guild leader flickered to life before him, and the Imperial smiled at the man.

“Greef Karga,” he greeted him, “it’s a pleasure to see you again so soon.” The guild leader crossed his arms, shifting his weight back and forth before sighing.

“The Mandalorian wants to talk to you,” the other man said, and the Imperial’s smile widened.

“Good,” he murmured. “It will be at your establishment, I assume?”

“Yeah, I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

“Thank you,” the Imperial said, standing from his seat as the holocall ended. Reaching for his jacket, the man tugged it on as he started for the door. Stepping out into the hallway, he called out to the doctor, who turned back at the sound of his voice.

“Doctor Pershing!”

“Yes, sir?” the man asked, starting back towards him.

“I’ll be heading out to Karga’s, I don’t know when I’ll return. The sergeant is in charge until then,” he said, “any issues will be taken to her.”

“Of course, sir,” the doctor replied. Buttoning his jacket up, the Imperial made his way past the man and down the hallway. Taking a left turn, he reached the end of the hallway and let himself outside. Shutting the door behind himself, he gave a brief nod the the stormtrooper on guard before he began his walk.


	4. Escort

The Mandalorian drummed his fingers on the smooth table, listening to the chatter around him as he waited. He’d have to ask Karga for a job soon, the Calamari Flan wouldn’t last the Covert for long. He sighed- it’d barely make them a few days. Having to mess with this Imperial was time he could have spent earning money for the tribe. Still, he reminded himself, the Beskar would last them for generations. He had to appreciate that, but he wished it had come from someone else. _Anyone_ else. A light knock against the wall made the Mandalorian look up. Karga leaned in, jerking a thumb behind him.

“The Imperial’s here,” the man let him know, disappearing back outside as the Imperial stepped inside. He held a hand up, stopping the man from sitting.

“The tribe will meet with you,” he started, and the other man smiled, “but you’ll wear this for the walk there.” He held up a blindfold, offering it to the Imperial. “You’ll wear it until you’re told to to take it off.”

“A sensible condition, with how things are for your people,” the Imperial replied, taking the strip of black fabric from him. “I accept. Shall I put it on here, or...?” he trailed off.

“Outside,” the Mandalorian told him as he stood, stepping around the man to start across the bustling cantina. He heard the Imperial follow after him, and turned to the man as they stepped outside. “Blindfold,” he said, watching as the other man obediently tied it over his eyes. The Mandalorian reached behind him, tugging the ends to ensure they were tight, then he took the man’s hand and placed it on his shoulder. “I’ll guide you,” he said. The man kept his pace slow as he started off, ignoring the looks they got as he led the Imperial down the street. People parted at his approach, letting them both pass unhindered as they walked. He took them down a winding road, turning left into an alleyway. Upon exiting it, he went right, guiding the man past various stalls. Sellers called out to them, but he ignored them as he walked. Another left, more vendors, more calls. Finally they reached his preferred alleyway, the Mandalorian pausing to glance around before he walked into the shadows. Guiding the man through the doorway, he paused again just shy of the stairway. “There are steps ahead,” he warned the Imperial, “I’ll go slow.” The other man nodded, and they started down. Once he’d reached the bottom, the Mandalorian looked back to the Imperial. “Last step,” he told him, and the older man stepped down.

The Covert was silent, not a single adult or child in sight. The Mandalorian fought down a sense of unease as he walked, reminding himself that this was only temporary. Once the Imperial was gone, things would return to the way they had been. He led the man down the dim tunnel, taking them right. At the far end of the hall was the Armorer’s chamber, and he took a breath as they approached it.

“In here,” he told the Imperial, guiding him into the large room. The forge burned bright in the shadows, the Armorer watching them from behind the flames. She wordlessly gestured to the table, and the Mandalorian led him to it. He paused at the seat, looking to the woman. She nodded, and he pulled the chair out, letting the legs scrape along the floor. “Sit,” he told the Imperial, who released him to slowly reach down. His hand brushed against the seat, the other finding the corner of the table, and the older man sat as the Mandalorian looked again to the Armorer. She looked towards the exit and he nodded in understanding, turning to walk past the Imperial. He stepped outside, leaning against the wall. Slowly letting his breath out, and the Mandalorian closed his eyes as he began the wait.


	5. Exchange

“You may remove the blindfold,” a woman’s voice told him, and the Imperial tugged the strip of cloth off. Bright blue flames immediately drew his gaze, and the man gave a quiet gasp when he realized where he was, and just who sat before him. The forge, the very heart of the Covert. That meant the Mandalorian eyeing him was- The Imperial respectfully lowered his gaze, speaking quietly.

“It’s an _honor_ to be allowed here.”

“You wished to speak with us,” the woman said, and he smiled.

“I did.”

“Then speak,” she replied.

“I have acquired a great deal of Beskar over time, and I would see it back into the hands of the Mandalorians,” he told her. When she said nothing, he continued. “However, I know that your people would never accept _gifted_ spoils, and my superiors would frown on simply giving it away.” He shifted forward, finally looking up to meet her helmeted gaze. “I have thought of a compromise.”

“Compromise,” she repeated, and he nodded.

“Yes- a trade that will benefit us both.”

“Explain,” the Armorer ordered, and he did as told.

“It would be an exchange,” he said, “the use of your tribe’s skills in return for the Beskar.” She sat in silence for a moment, and he let his gaze drop back to the table.

“What would you ask of us?”

“There are several targets we would appreciate having brought to us alive. Members of you tribe would accept these missions, and would receive payment in Beskar. Once the missions have been completed, I would select the Mandalorian who I thought performed best for the final task.”

“This final task, what is it?” she asked, and he considered how to answer.

“A highly valuable target, one that _must_ be taken alive. Payment for the successful completion of this task will be... _considerable._ ”

“I see,” the Armorer replied, and he waited for her final answer. “You are Imperial,” she began, “many will not wish to work for you. I will speak with the tribe, and send those who are willing to you. If none are, you will leave us.”

“I understand,” the man said, bowing his head slightly to the Armorer as she stood.

“You may go,” the woman said as she turned back to the forge, and he took a moment to commit the image of her dark outline against the bright flames to memory before reaching for the blindfold. Simply breathtaking, he thought to himself as he stood from the table and walked towards the exit. He would treasure the memory for the rest of his life, of that he was sure. The man paused at the entrance, sliding the blindfold back on before he stepped outside. He heard the rustle of armor as the Mandalorian who had guided him here moved, a hand closing on his. He stepped forward with the motion as his hand was once again placed on the Mandalorian’s armor, the two of them silently setting off. As they slowly walked, the Imperial smiled.


	6. Volunteer

The Mandalorian sighed with relief as he re-entered the Covert and found his fellow tribe members moving about. The empty silence, it had been... unnerving. He hadn’t liked it.

“Djarin!” He looked up at the call, returning Falon’s wave as the man made his way to him.

“Falon,” he greeted him.

“You’ve returned just in time,” the shorter man said, walking at his side.

“For what?” the Mandalorian asked, and Falon gestured to the other members of their tribe. Djarin frowned when he realized that they were all walking in the same direction. He glanced around, his frown deepening when he saw no children.

“The Armorer has called a meeting,” Falon told him as they joined the small crowd.

“About?”

“I don’t know,” the man said, shrugging as they neared the room. The group thinned, filtering inside. The Mandalorian followed them, taking his place in the row as more of the tribe entered. The Armorer stood at the far side of the room, silently watching as they continued inside. Once the flow of people had stopped, the woman began.

“An offer was made to the tribe-”

“By an Imperial!” Vizla, who stood off to the right, spoke up. The Armorer turned at his interruption, the others standing in silence as he continued. “What could _he_ offer us?” the man asked.

“Beskar,” she replied, and the Mandalorian watched as Vizla stiffened.

“Beskar?” he repeated. “More like what the _coward_ brought? Spoils from the Great Purge?” Quiet murmurs broke out across the room.

“Yes,” the Armorer said, “and it has been returned to us. The Imperial offered a trade- our skills in return for the metal.”

“You,” Vizla’s voice went low, a mix of disbelief and fury, “you would have us _work for them_? The ones who ruined our world, our way of life!?”

“No,” the Armorer replied, and the Mandalorian frowned in confusion. No? But she had said- “He has made an offer, one that I will repeat. No one must accept it, the choice will be yours.” She turned from Vizla, raising her voice as she addressed the tribe. “The Imperial has several targets he wishes to be acquired alive. He is willing to pay in Beskar. Once these tasks have been completed, there will be a last mission, one that he will pay well for. As I said,” she looked around the room, “this is your choice. Should you accept, you will be sent to the Imperial. If no one accepts, he will leave.” More murmuring broke out around them, and the Mandalorian looked to Falon, who shrugged. He crossed his arms, drumming his fingers against scarred metal. He did not _wish_ to work for the Imperials, but the Beskar... It was priceless, precious. As the Armorer had said, the ingot he had been given would sponsor many foundlings. If the tribe had _more_...

“I will go,” the Mandalorian volunteered, stepping forward. If it helped his people, he would bear his distaste for what remained of the Empire.

“I will, also,” Falon volunteered, stepping up to the Mandalorian’s side as the Armorer looked to them.

“As will I,” Vashaar, an older woman, stepped out from the row ahead of them. They waited for a moment, but no one else spoke up.

“Come forward,” the Armorer said, and the three started towards her.

“Traitors,” Vizla spat the word, shaking his head at them.

“They have made their choice, Vizla,” the Armorer replied, “as have you. You may go, all of you,” she addressed the room, and the other tribe members began to filter from the room. The Mandalorian stood by Falon’s side as Vashaar joined them. “Djarin.” He looked to her. “The Imperial, do you know where he stays?”

“No,” the man replied, “but Karga can contact him.”

“Then you will go first,” the Armorer replied, and he was glad his helmet hid his surprise. “If you wish, you may take the Calamari Flan and purchase upgrades for your armor. I would improve upon it if you wished.” The Mandalorian shook his head- the money had been for the tribe, he wouldn’t use it for himself.

“My armor is sound,” he said, “it needs no improvement.”

“Then go,” the woman instructed, “see what the Imperial will ask of you.” The Mandalorian nodded in understanding, turning to make his way from the room. He hadn’t expected this to happen so quickly, but he would adapt, he told himself. It was for the tribe, and for the tribe, he would do anything.


	7. Target

The trip to Karga’s had been a quiet, quick one. He’d waited as the Guild Master had called the Imperial, listening as they spoke to each other. He had gotten his location and headed out. The path had led him to a rundown building, and he frowned at the stormtrooper waiting for him.

“You’re the Mandalorian?” she asked, and he nodded. “This way,” the woman said, entering first. He followed behind her, eyeing the discolored walls around them as they walked. Crates of supplies lined the floor, a small repair droid slipping past them as they made their way down the hallway. “In here, Mando,” the woman said, jerking a thumb at the door to her right. He stepped inside, looking around the spacious room. It was visibly cleaner than the rest, free of crates and clutter. The Imperial sat at a desk in the center of the room, smiling as he entered.

“Please, sit,” the older man gestured to the seat before him, and the Mandalorian did as asked. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the stormtrooper had followed them in. She hadn’t. “I must admit,” the Imperial began, and the Mandalorian turned to face him, “I did not expect such a quick response from the Covert. I’m pleased, however, that the Armorer was able to find a volunteer.”

“There will be more,” he replied, and the Imperial gave another smile as he pulled a drawer open and reached inside.

“Good, good,” the man murmured, riffling through his drawer till he’d found what he’d been looking for. He placed the puck on the desk between them, flicking it on. The image of a woman flickered before them, the Mandalorian leaning forward to study her. “I assume you were told how we’d like our targets?” the Imperial asked, and Djarin nodded.

“Alive,” he answered.

“Your payment for delivering her will be a single Beskar ingot,” the Imperial told him, “will that be acceptable?”

“Who is she?” he asked.

“Her name is Carasynthia Dune,” the older man replied. “An ex shock trooper who served both the Alliance and the New Republic before her early... retirement.” The Mandalorian frowned at her steady stance, eyeing her muscular build. “I’ve been told that she’s quite good at hand to hand combat,” the Imperial continued, as if he could sense Djarin’s focus, “although I assume that she’s also formidable with other weapons.”

“Do you have a last known location?” the younger man asked, and the Imperial nodded.

“We received word that she’d been spotted boarding a flight to the planet Sorgan, though that was some time ago,” he cautioned. The Mandalorian reached for the puck, flicking it off before he slipped it into his pocket. “You find the mission acceptable, then?” the Imperial asked, and Djarin nodded. “Good,” he said, sitting back. “I look forward to your return, Mandalorian.” Djarin stood, leaving the room. The stormtrooper fell into step beside him as they made their way back down the hallway. The door slid open, the woman staying inside as he stepped out. The door shut as soon as he was out, and the Mandalorian sighed as he began the long walk to his ship.


	8. Arrival

No star port, no industrial centers, no population density. Djarin sighed down at the info, flicking the display off as he focused on bringing the ship down. Descending through the planet’s atmosphere, he glided low over a sprawling forest, looking for clusters of buildings. A few small villages dotted the earth below him, but nothing- Ah, there. Djarin slowed his ship, beginning his final descent as he readied the landing gear. The ship gave a light shudder when it landed, and the Mandalorian powered the Razor Crest down. Reaching out to pick up the puck, he made his way through his ship and stepped out into the dimming sunlight. Pocketing the puck, the Mandalorian started toward the small collection of buildings he’d seen. It was a rundown place- stained wood walls, creaking floorboards; broken windows. The Mandalorian paused at the edge of the busy hub, eyeing the people. Vendors, farmers, a few obvious off worlders. He sighed again. Dune had picked a good planet to hide on. He’d have to start checking through the various trading hubs across the planet, and if he didn’t find her there, he’d focus on the villages. It would take time. The man reached into his pocket, feeling the smooth edges of the puck as he started into the crowd and studied their many faces. No, no, no, _definitely_ no. No- _yes_.

The woman was standing in the door of a cantina, speaking to two younger men. The Mandalorian slowed, feigning interest in a clothing stall’s wears as he watched Dune from the corner of his eye. She looked out across the crowd, and he fully faced the stall for a long moment before looking back. The woman made an impatient gesture to the two men, waving them away as they tried to keep talking to her. They finally backed off when she stepped out of the cantina and started towards the Mandalorian. Djarin reached out, feeling the rough fabric of a shirt as she walked past him and left the hub. He silently counted down to himself, turning when he reached zero. Setting off after her, the man glanced down the many side paths that led out from the hub, looking around at the low set houses around him. He reached up, toggling his helmet’s heat sensing feature as he picked a muddy path and started down it. Red footprints gleamed against the dull grass, and he followed the winding trail through another row of shacks before he stopped. The footprints were gone. He frowned, looking up to eye the house to his left. Had she managed to climb up the side-

Something slammed into him, the Mandalorian grunting as he stumbled forward. He turned as Dune landed before him, the woman drawing back to swing a fist at him. Djarin ducked under the blow, her fist slamming into the wood behind him with a meaty thunk. She grunted, and he jabbed his own fist at her, firing his electro dart. As her body spasmed he sprinted forward, ramming his shoulder into her chest. They went down together, the man reaching for his blaster as she-

His head rocked forward as something smashed against his helmet. He heard a cracking sound, seeing the leafy end of a branch spin off to the ground as he turned to face his new- attackers? The men from before nervously stood before him, the taller one pointing his broken branch at the Mandalorian’s head.

“G- get off her!” he yelled, his voice shaking.

“Yeah!” the other man agreed, “leave Cara alone!”

“Or what?” the Mandalorian asked, and both men exchanged nervous glances.

“Or we’ll... we’ll-!”

“Please,” the second one interrupted the first, “don’t hurt her! She’s the only one who can save us!” Djarin frowned. Save them?

“What you mean?” he asked, looking down at the woman.

“Raiders are attacking our village,” the first one said in a rush, “they have this.... this _big_ machine with them, and Cara-”

“Wait, wait,” the Mandalorian shook his head, looking back up at them. “What?”

“It’s an AT-ST,” Dune told him, pointedly glaring at where he straddled her. After a moment of hesitation, the man moved off of her, watching as she pushed herself into a sitting position. “I don’t know how the raiders got their hands on one, but they’ve been using it to terrorize the villages around them.” She reached down, grimacing as she pulled the dart out of her arm and threw it to the ground. “Look, I’d love to fight you, but those idiots,” she gestured to the two men, “and their people won’t move. I’m trying to train them to take it down.”

“This is a small planet,” the Mandalorian said, “what do they have that could do that?”

“Nothing,” she said with a chuckle, and he frowned. She brushed the grass of her pants as she stood, then offered him her hand. “How about we make a deal, Mando? Assuming I live through this, we’ll fight it out afterwards, ok?” He nodded, taking her hand to shake it.

“Do you have any carts we could use?” he asked the villagers, and they shared a confused look with each other before nodding.

“Yeah,” the first one said, “why?”

“I have spare weapons on my ship,” the Mandalorian replied, “your people could use them.”

“What’re you doing, Mando?” Dune asked.

“I need you alive,” he told her, and she laughed at him.

“Well, boys,” she looked at the two village men, “looks like our odds just got a bit better!” The Mandalorian turned from them, starting back down the path as the others followed.


	9. To Help

The village was small; rustic. The Mandalorian descended from the cart, watching as villagers dressed in dark blues curiously approached.

“Cara?” a tall, thin woman eyed him, a little girl peeking out from behind her in clear interest.

“Villagers, Mandalorian,” Dune introduced them with a slight smile. “Mandalorian, villagers.” She turned to directly address them. “He ran into us on our way back from town. There was a little misunderstanding, but he wants to help.”

“Really?” the woman asked, and when Dune nodded she reached for his hands and looked at his hidden eyes. “Thank you,” she stressed. The Mandalorian nodded to her, turning from the woman to eye their cart of weapons.

“All right,” Dune raised her voice, drawing the attention of the other villagers back to her. “Now that Mando’s given us a _small_ chance, we’re going to make the most of it! Those raiders could come back any day now, so tomorrow we’re going to start digging in. Got it?” That got her scattered calls of approval, and she smiled down at the cart as she eyed his many weapons.

Still, no matter how his presence had energized the village, night was night. Dune had invited him to her shack, and the Mandalorian had accepted the offer.

“I promise you I won’t run while you’re sleeping,” she jokingly assured him as she prepared to bed down for the night, “Republic’s honor.”

“I won’t take you either,” he returned the promise, and the woman chuckled.

“Mandalorians,” she muttered to herself, sitting on the edge of her bed.

“I’ll give them their money back,” Djarin continued, and the woman cocked her head at him. “After this, when I take you in,” he explained. “You won’t need it, so I’ll return it to the villagers.” She grinned at that, eyeing him.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be?”

“Yes,” he replied, and she laughed as she sat forward.

“I’ll do you one better- when I beat you, I’m stripping your armor to sell it, but you can keep the helmet. How’s that sound?” she asked, a question he decided not to reply to. Dune pulled her sheets back, then looked down at him again. “Besides, you don’t have to worry about the money. These people don’t have that much, not like I could buy anything useful with it anyway.” Then that meant...?

“You’re doing this for free?” he asked, and she nodded.

“I’m Republic,” she proudly patted her tattoo, “it’s what we do.” He frowned.

“I was told that you had left them.” Had some of his info been faulty? Her smile dropped too, and she stared down at the tattoo. They sat in silence for a long moment before she finally spoke again.

“The New Republic,” she quietly said, her voice low, “they aren’t _the_ Republic. Got too political, too much like the old one. No,” she shook her head, “ _the_ Republic isn’t a government, it’s what’s in here,” she tapped her chest as she met his gaze. “And that’s why I’ll always be Republic.” Djarin gave a solemn nod at that, and she smiled as she lay down and pulled the sheets over herself. Settling back in his position, the Mandalorian closed his eyes.


End file.
